


Without Question

by jonghyundroppedthesoap



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonghyundroppedthesoap/pseuds/jonghyundroppedthesoap
Summary: John would always follow him without question. But God, not like this.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	Without Question

I had always followed him without question.

Listening with wide, attentive eyes and nodding in agreement. Offering small pieces of advice when asked for. Running after him with reckless abandon. A loyal friend, through thick and thin.

Commonly, our adventures consisted of small police cases. Stolen objects, infidelity, manslaughter. Such cases were usually solved within hours, and while not particularly challenging, they at least paid the rent and cured the boredom which seemed to haunt my friend like the plague. The real fun ones were the murders, though. Locked room, murder-suicide, serial killers. My friend loved the serial killers. Seemed to get a high off of them, almost. And one might peg it as strange, really. But that’s just how my friend was. Odd, yes. But a proper genius when it all came down to it.

I often found myself standing around dead bodies. Studying their face and skin and eyes and limbs until a cause of death could be determined. I was a doctor, after all. In a sense, looking at dead bodies was my job. This was no different.

I enjoyed the work. The case work. It was exhilarating and gave me something to do. Paid not much, but it was worth it, to stand beside him. To watch my friend’s intelligence at its peak, to watch those bright eyes sparkle with something my own could never dream of harbouring. Honestly speaking, this man had saved me in every sense of the word. Physically, mentally, existentially. I was so alone, and I owed him so much.

My friend was known to be unpredictable. And I had known that, of course. How else would I have bared to live with him? Bared to be subject to every tantrum and every ill comment? I knew my friend like no other. Knew every expression, every habit, every kind of behaviour. I stayed despite it all because why wouldn’t I? I was loyal to the very end and thrived off the adrenaline of unforeseeable circumstances. With one a producer of unpredictability and one an avid consumer, our friendship was only inevitable.

But there comes a time in every friendship where the things that once brought you together only serve to push you apart. My friend had always been unpredictable, yes. But not like this. God, not like this.

It had been a trying few days. No interesting cases to dull my friend’s boredom, nothing on television, a constant thrum of rain against a window. I had tried to no avail to cure that consuming nothingness, but my attempts were fruitless, and my friend could only glare. But then, like a miraculous call from God, the phone rang. My friend had picked it up immediately, talking into the phone quickly and his eyes slowly lighting up with that spark I knew all too well. “We’ll be right there.” His voice sent a shiver down my spine. Looking back, I can’t specify whether it was a pleasant or chilling sensation.

We ran, like we always did, through the concrete jungle and its every nook and cranny. Maybe it’s just hindsight, but this time felt different, somehow. More dangerous and more charged. Perhaps I should have stayed home. But alas, I followed, like the ever faithful servant I was, offering small pieces of advice when asked for and running after him with reckless abandon.

There had been a confrontation. I watched my friend, the way his mouth moved faster than his brain and his hands gesticulated wildly, with a fondness. And I didn’t know what the other man said. Really, I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. Yet all of a sudden my friend was on him, brandishing a steak knife from the restaurant we’d passed along the way, and there was so much blood. Christ, the blood. For the first time in the four years we’d known each other, we were standing around a body my friend had placed there. My friend, the all-knowing murder-solving detective, had become the murderer. And rather than solving the case, we began the unfamiliar task of hiding it away, utilising the knowledge we’d gained from all our adventures to our advantage.

And I trusted him, I did. I trusted that man with my life. He had saved me, hadn’t he? Yet when it was all done and dusted and the body was gone, and he turned to face me still with that bloody knife in hand, something overcame me. Something fuelled by adrenaline and something so out of character a shame fills my entire body at recollection. I knew he would never turn on me. I knew that… I did. I did. But nonetheless, the fear that consumed me when seeing that knife was beastly. And before I knew what I was doing, there was a crowbar in my hand and a thwack upon his head. And my friend fell to the ground, unconscious.

I was a doctor. I often found myself standing around dead bodies. But as I reached down with shaking hands and tentatively checked for a pulse, death became a whole new experience. Something within me died. I was consumed by a desolation I had felt not even after that bullet in Afghanistan. The eyes which once held so much – so much intelligence, so much life, so much love – stared up at me, unblinking. Lifeless. A shell of the phenomenon they once were. I could vaguely hear someone sobbing in the distance, and looked up, confused, only to realise it was me.

I’m screaming, I’m choking. I can’t breathe. Suddenly, I have nothing left.

The loyalty and faithfulness which I had once prided myself on was gone. The new life I had made for myself had been ripped away in seconds. He was gone. My friend was gone. I had craved unpredictability. But not like this. God, not like this.

And if the next thing I did was reach for the browning in my pocket, it was because I was his friend. If I held it in my hands, contemplative, it was because I was faithful. If I lifted it to my mouth, a tranquil calm overcoming me, it was because I knew him like no other. And if I pulled the trigger and fell to the ground beside him, it was because I was loyal to the very end.

I would always follow him without question.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you thought! I wrote this for a university assessment last year and completely forgot about it. Very angsty but I thoroughly enjoyed writing it.


End file.
